Cinnamon and Chamomile Breath, Chocolate and Hoary
by Waiting.2.Be.Discovered
Summary: One-shot 2. HermioneGranger-Draco Malfoy. Draco contemplates the past, and does some remembering. "Her lips had been cold, but warmed by his own. She had tasted like lemon juice and honey, and their breath of cinnamon and chamomile leaves mingled and mixe


This is my second fanfiction. I hope you guys like it. Reviews always welcome.

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**Cinnamon and Chamomile Breath, Chocolate and Hoary Eyes**

"I'd like a Grande Chai-Green Tea Latte with whip cream to-go please," her voice rang out clear as a bell in his ears and he could hear the smile on her face before he even looked up. Always so unnecessarily friendly, the angelic blonde scoffed to himself.

He lifted his sensible French-House blend (with exactly one-scoop of sugar, 1/4 cup creamer, and just a small dash of cinnamon "for a spicy kick". No whip cream, whip cream was childish) with his left hand, the silver and emerald band on his fourth finger glinting, his calculating silver eyes appraised the figure of the girl—well she was more of a woman now, she had grown into her now 6 foot leggy body rather well from the awkwardly _hott _school girl to the grown woman she was now—the sinuous figure of the woman leaning against the counter waiting, for her drink, smiling, small-talking with the adolescent processing the orders.  
Just as she had on that day 5 years ago on March 17, 2010. Just as she had when they had met.

He had just left his Ministry office—stressed, knotted, and unable to recall the last time when he had had some after being assigned to purify one of many pockets of Dark Magic left over from The War—and just wanted a nice warm cup of chamomile tea to ease his headache at the wizard-friendly café he always went to, and invested in. However when he got there, ordered his tea, he found someone sitting in the booth he always sat at—the one beside the small window, unobtrusive, in the corner.

Too perturbed to care, he settled in the table next to, in the seat by the wall so he could tilt his chair back. He examined the girl—teased-looking hip-length chestnut colored hair draped on smooth exposed shoulder skin of the black camisole the brunette was wearing to fall in shape with the womanly arch at the base of her back, above the faded lantern green khaki pants clad the bottom and crossed legs, leading to pointy black flat footed feat. Looking back up, from what he could see of her face not hidden behind the curtain of hair was a slightly upturned but not snob nose above slightly parted pink lips on a heart-shaped face pointed downwards to a rather thick, worn-looking leather backed book placed next to a large temperature-controlled coffee cup with slight steam rising from the open plastic lid mouth. Sipping from the steaming mug while he continued analyzing the attractive woman, he discovered to his slight disappointment that the girl had gotten the order wrong and it was some coffee—cinnamon, a fine slightly bitter taste, not to sweet or creamed. He decided he liked it and resolved it his new favorite drink when the woman occupying his usual table murmured, "Chamomile tea…" In an attempt to unrecline his chair and put down his coffee at the same time to talk to the girl, his seat having been teetering on the back legs lost balance and—he fell rather ungracefully.

He had blacked out for a moment or so, because it was dark and then he opened his eyes. Blinking a few times he saw the hazy outline of the woman with the bushy hair from beside him above him, before something trickled into his eye and something was beginning to sting on his forehead along with his eye. Then the woman waved a, stick? No, it was her wand and he felt a pulling sensation on his head—a healing charm then.

Sitting up he put a hand to his head and found with true dismay his hairline was slightly bloodied. "Thank you," he said to the woman without looking at her at first. He was shocked when he did turn to a voice he hadn't heard for, wow 2 bloody years (he hadn't really kept in touch with people besides at work). The brunette was sitting with her heels under butt, hands on her lap still holding her wand. Trying to avoid her chocolate eyes, he looked at her nose, to her lips, her ear, to her cinnamon colored hair, and then followed a strand that was nicely tucked in between her now undeniable cleavage.

Grateful for the low-lighting that covered his blush he made himself look at her face which had a good-humored smirk on it. "Long time no see," the she-devil sang out, and then jibed. "Long time no fly?" Like riding a bike, he quickly searched for something. "Long time no party?" He said, returning her smirk with his trademark one, indicating the tome on her table as they stood up, she gestured to the chair across hers, he snagged his drink from his table then sat determined—a challenge of wits, two could play at that game.

They had sat at the table for hours, quoting and challenging each other to name the person who said the quote, asking what had happened with each other after The War. Ronald had died in the war, a horrible "casualty". And he himself, after converting to the "Side of Good", was….well, not left with many friends. He had discovered she was working "off the clock", translating some Grecian book that had recently been found in some ruins; therefore the Ministry of course wanted its own copy—and she discovered he was rather fluent in Greek, Italian, Japanese, French, Goblin, and numerous other languages; rather helpful remnants of his childhood. They had truly bonded that night. When the café had finally closed, they wandered out into the cold March weather, she uncharacteristically having forgotten a coat. Slightly cliché, he had shared his coat, walked her home, and shared that special First Kiss—her own her tiptoes, arms around his neck, his on her waist. Both sharing one long coat wrapped around the two, the woman scantily clad (not whorishly), in the light of a doorstop. A truly Hallmark moment. He touched his lips, he could still recall that kiss so long ago, overshadowing recent ones. Her lips had been cold, but warmed by his own. She had tasted like lemon juice and honey, and their breath of cinnamon and chamomile leaves mingled and mixed. Melting chocolate eyes gazing into Hoary melting molten silver.

Now, 5 years later, the woman was clad in navy "skinny jeans" as she called them, with a silver belt fastened around that size 2 petite waist he had gotten to know (and almost daily possessively hug) so well . Her top was a rather pleasant chartreuse tank top, the man noted with surprise. But her arms had bangles of silver, red, and green and her neck was adorned with two--a deep burgundy and a Kelly-green—of those long rubber hair bands. Her brown hair, no longer as bushy as it was volumized, was haphazardly clipped up with a few strands hanging and nicely framing her face.

Her face which then turned in his direction. He quickly averted his eyes back to the newspaper in his right hand, but not before he saw her smile-smirk smally as she did so-often, devilishly in a way he had grown to love when at once it used to exasperate him.

Infuriating woman, the profuse blush staining his pale cheeks, uncharacteristically it seemed—based on the ruggedly yet politely-aristocratic look of him in loose black jeans (that somehow managed to frame his arse quite well) and an unbuttoned wales-green oxford over a charcoal boy beater tank –he thought to himself while forcing his face to be composed when it was itching to reflexively smile back at her.

The employee then handed her the euro colored Grande Chai-Green Tea Latte with whip cream in a branded and capped, already condensing plastic cup (no, he did not memorize the drink she had at least once a week and froze if it melted to much) and her change, wishing her to have a nice day.

Hermione smiled and wished the employee in return, then, donning sunglasses swept to the door. Only pausing to say, "Coming partner?" Déjà vu, she said it just as she had 5 years ago. Draco looked at her for a moment, imprinting her standing in the doorway right-then-and-there in his memory: the sunlight from the door spilling through, backlighting her—bringing out the color in her hair, the cream in her skin, the way her clothes casually hugged her curves, and the indirect light glancing off of the heirloom emerald and silver ring on the left hand casually holding the doorframe.

It had been there for 5 years, the only time he'd seen the flesh beneath it was when he had gotten it cleaned on their 3 year anniversary. The ring which was living proof that she was impossibly and unbelievably _his_, or as his as she could ever be. The intelligent, smart-arsed, fiery, witty, loose-lippy, brunette lioness was his—they were a good fit, neither could get bored; The Roaring Lioness of Gryffindor/Golden Trio and The Prince of Slytherin/Dark Arts.

Then the blonde angel gracefully set down the newspaper and flew out of the small cafe, to follow his brunette angel.

And on the table, the newspaper was opened to the weddings/announcements. The light from the window shown on a rather large section that read:

"HAPPY 5th ANNIVERSARY  
Ministry Aurors  
Draco Malfoy, 21, and Hermione Granger, 20  
Married  
On March 17, 2010  
At Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry  
Before Albus Dumbledore's grave."


End file.
